


five more minutes.

by spacedvst



Category: The Ultimate Sidemen
Genre: Anger, Character Death, Denial, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I cried writing this, M/M, Men Crying, Minishaw, Sad, harry is just grieving the whole time, im so sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27463960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacedvst/pseuds/spacedvst
Summary: "you have to let me go someday, baby. i'm not gonna be able to wish you goodnight forever, no matter how long you stay awake.""just five more minutes?""five more minutes."
Relationships: Harry Lewis/Simon Minter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	five more minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> so yea um when i wrote this i cried im in the mood for angst 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: major character death, anger, denial, self-harm mentions.

**HARRY STARES AT THE CEILING.**

perfectly still, yet totally breathless. he had been finding even the simplest things so difficult lately.

the stars outside his bedroom window twinkle. he glares at them bitterly. who were they to sparkle like that in such a dull world? simon fucking loved the stars, which meant harry hated them.

they were always such utter opposites: harry the day, simon the night. harry sweet, simon sour. harry passive, simon aggressive. harry there, and simon...

harry hated the stars. always boring their gazes down onto him, flickering with sympathy, watching over him like he was some fucking charity case. he wasn't. harry lewis didn't need help.

it was everyone else with the problem. they tried to hide how hurt they were to lighten harry's load, but he knew exactly what was going on. jj screamed into his pillows most nights, raw voice seeking peace, some sort of machine that could turn back time. he must have forgotten that he was on a call with harry that night: at 2am harry found out more about olajide olatunji than he had in a span of six years, and that made him so fucking angry. he had to pay better attention, or jj had to be more open about his feelings.

josh always pulled at his collar nowadays, like he was trying to claw through his throat and convince it to ease up. he found it difficult to find the words for anything now – practically a selective mute at this point. harry despised him for it. he needed josh to give one of those compelling speeches right about now, convince him to stop looking at the window like it was a gateway to a better world. like it was an opportunity. _(you know you can come to us, right, harry? we're always gonna be here for you, we're the sidemen!)_

tobi tried his best, bless him, but everyone knew he had a heart of glass. cracking here and there, cutting up his lungs and piercing his chest. he was shattering from the inside-out. harry sometimes rounded a corner to see him crouched down, hands on the floor, eyes closed, lips ghosting a prayer. he would scoff: as if praying would do shit. no god or power or coding in the simulation could reverse something like this.

ethan, on the other hand, was breaking himself from the outside inwards. his knuckles were so bruised that they began to blend in with his freckles. surely it hurt to even move them – how could he be so fucking stupid? it wasn't doing any of them any good, seeing their best friend walk into jj's flat with a black eye and clothes from the day before. he was letting himself and everyone else go. he was selfish.

vik threw himself into everything now, muttering one evening to the boys that _it's what simon would have wanted_. harry screamed at him that night, threw things around vik's pricey new house and tore him limb from limb. scolding him for blaming their best friend for his own self-destructive ethic, just because the guy couldn't defend himself. did he think simon would enjoy the look of them now? grin at the sight of vik's fucking gucci eye bags and quivering bones? how could he say something like that? vik left the dining table with watery eyes and his head bowed low. he had to get his act together.

it took a while for harry to realise that he was angry; lashing out at everyone and everything in sight. he came home one day and rampaged into the kitchen with smoke seeping out of his ears just because one little plant pot broke. cal tip-toed over, staring down at him with an expression he couldn't quite define (or maybe he just couldn't see; everything was a wobbling photo of grief through tear-filled eyes). cal hugged him so tight harry was convinced all his pent-up emotions would come bursting out in flames. they cried in the kitchen for hours. well, harry couldn't really tell the time anymore. hours seemed like minutes and minutes seemed like hours.

but harry was past that now. he wasn't angry. he was okay. he was healing.

it was just something about those stupid fucking stars. a navy hue danced around the room, replicating an aurora.

(he and simon had watched an aurora once, sitting atop the roof of their rented cabin, hands intertwined, toothy grins softer than the snow adorning the gentle hills)

still, harry's eyes didn't part from the window. they couldn't until he was here. hastily, he checked the time on his phone. _1:04am_. he could wait another few hours; he'd do anything for him. he tried to ignore the plethora of texts that had flooded in a few hours ago. he hadn't even bothered to swipe them away, willing for them – for everyone – to just disappear.

today they had tried filming a sidemen video. god, who were they to even call themselves that anymore? they all gathered on the astroturf, not even daring to spare a look at each other. especially not in the eyes. harry couldn't look anyone in the eyes anymore; they all distorted into _his_. they all broke off into pairs to do some stupid task harry hadn't bothered listening for the instructions to. they were in pairs. there were six of them. the perfect divide. that thought churned around in his stomach.

somewhere along the way, harry had been so caught up in his thoughts that he had tripped over the ball and landed on the rough ground, the plastic blades of grass scraping and scoring his knees. was it sinful to say he liked it? that he felt better shredded into tiny pieces than feeling happy for even a second then feeling guilty for hours on end later? who was he to be happy when his person was gone?

josh was the first respondent, rushing over and holding out a hand. (still so protective – at least that hadn't changed).

"you alright, haz?"

_simon called him that._

harry's blood began flowing backwards, back up to his heart, draining his body of the putrid red. harry wished he didn't have any blood sometimes; sometimes he tried to get rid of it; the scissors dangling on a hook in the kitchen always called his name, like a lost lover. harry didn't know where he was going, but he only regained control of his legs when he was two streets away and coughing sobs into the back of his hand.

it began to rain, because of course it fucking would. mother nature just had to spite him. harry screamed at the sky with an ugly bite in his words.

"oh, _fuck_ you!" he rasped, frankly not giving a shit if rain ran into his eyes. maybe then he'd go blind; maybe then he'd finally stop seeing those spindly hands, rosy cheeks, blonde waves every damn time he opened his eyes.

sometimes even white noise sounded like his laughter. sometimes even the bathroom cabinet resembled his smile. sometimes even the mention of a name beginning with 's' was enough to catch harry screaming into his hands on the kitchen floor, feebly kicking cal away and tugging at his hair. _(stop it. pull it out. it feels too much like his)_

suddenly, a breeze whirred through the window. he always left it open now; simon preferred sleeping in a cold bed. he'd do anything to keep him here longer. harry grinned, as he did every night when the time finally came, and felt he could finally breathe. like the boulder had been lifted from his back.

"you alright, haz?"

_that's_ who the words really belonged to. he lifted his bleary eyes to his bedside ( _their_ bedside) and sighed with utter relief. there he was. basking in the glimmering moonlight, cold colours painted along his collarbone, trailing down his arm, reaching the floor and breaking off into the night sky. his hand set harry's thigh ablaze even on that november morning, skin burning whilst the frost crept onto his windowsill. his fingertips were matches struck against a holy lectern, words holding all the knowledge in the world harry knew simon would only tease, never tell.

his lips were baked to perfection and sprinkled with a smile; harry knew they tasted just like apple pie, remembered how he used to lean up, close his eyes and fall through the years back into his seat at his mother's dining table, where everything was warm and simple. or he'd be pulled into ibiza where he had pushed his sun lounger into simon's and they huddled beneath a towel, mutedly sharing the sunset and knowing exactly what the other was thinking.

but harry never had the confidence to look simon in the eyes when he first appeared. maybe he was scared it was cal or some other preacher trying to pray for his peace of mind. there was a reason harry hadn't ever prayed – he didn't need to – he knew simon was there.

god, he sounded just as he did when he was really at the bedside, poking harry's leg to get him to budge or swinging an arm over his hip and blessing a kiss on harry's temple.

harry's throat was forced full of sand when he finally spoke. "it's not the same without you," he whispered. "i'm so cold." simon's lips pulled downward and harry's heart cracked (that was, if his heart could be beaten any further).

"want the window closed?" it might have sounded an offering, but simon had already stood up. harry bit back a childish sob when simon turned his back; that was how he'd seen him last before–

"there we go, love. you really need to stop leaving this open, y'know, you'll catch a cold."

the window hadn't moved an inch. simon hadn't seemed to notice.

"don't you visit anyone else?" harry asked, begging to hold simon's hand but knowing far too well that he'd instead be reaching for the closed fist of thin air. simon hummed thoughtfully, throwing an arm along the headboard of their bed and gesturing for harry to shuffle along. he hadn't realised that he always slept on simon's side nowadays. _'it provides comfort, closure,'_ would say the therapist lux had forced him to visit once. he didn't need a therapist; he wasn't fucked in the head. he was fine.

simon raised his hand to lift the duvet. nothing moved. nonetheless, he still shuffled along and smiled down at harry. everything about him was so golden, iridescent.

"no one needs me as much as you do," simon replied softly, blinking through a pitiful smile. harry choked on a laugh at that, sitting up against the headboard and folding his arms. "you're right," he admitted, blowing out the wobbling breath he had been holding so close to his heart for so long. simon was always right. funny, how he was the one who was lost, yet harry needed consoling.

"they miss you so much," harry's voice tightened and he gulped down his emotions. _stop being a fucking crybaby, he's here now._

_but not in the way i want._

"i know, but that's something they'll learn to move on from. it won't hurt this much forever, you know," simon nudged harry's shoulder; only a blunt shiver run down his spine. "one day i'll be like how middle-aged people remember their first high school love; or how kids ask their parents what their grandparents were like. things won't be this big, this impossible to get around forever." harry bit his lip to keep it from trembling.

"but what if that's how i want it to be?" his voice was coarse. how could simon think so lowly of himself? didn't he know how godly, how indispensable he was? simon pulled the sun over the horizon each morning; painted the skies for the whole world to witness; kept space and time a constant; spun the earth on his fingertip. simon was everything.

"it's up to you how long it takes to let me go. i'll always be here, you know that, but i'll be tucked away in your heart. you do need a guardian angel – can't have you cracking your head on cement or rolling off your roof again," simon chuckled. he was so _present_ , so aware, with lights glistening in his eyes and fairy dust circling him like his own personal entourage. even in his waking days simon was an angel; it was his birthright to be the heart and soul of every group he joined.

they remained in a bittersweet silence for a while, breathing in unsaid confessions and breathing out any awareness of the world beyond their four walls. if it weren't for that window, harry wouldn't know there was a world to be explored at all. this was his place; their place; the place two wandering souls knew they would always find one another.

things had been so difficult ever since simon left him. the sidemen had taken a three month hiatus so far, and the fans were growing wary. they had all paid off each and every news outlet hideous amounts of money for them to keep quiet about simon. but harry knew the temptation bit at their tongues, danced on their fingers. at the drop of a penny they would tell the world: no one outside their bubble cared if simon was a human or not – he was a headline now. a bonus on the pay check.

the last harry had seen of simon was a fresh august morning; the hottest day of the year. simon leaned down to kiss him goodbye before hopping in his car and sauntering to some meeting that, in the grand scheme of things, wasn't even fucking important. harry heard everything from deep beneath the ocean, muffled and distant. he numbly tried to lace together the words thrown at him, lazily tried to pry comforting hands off his shoulders, wetly laughed when someone asked if he would be alright.

of course he would be alright, he had simon.

"...you know what this is, don't you?" simon whispered into harry's hair, invisible hands weaving through the locks he hadn't had a decent look at in days; he was beginning to get scared of looking in the mirror. scared he would see someone he didn't recognise within himself. who was harry lewis without simon minter?

harry cleared his throat before nodding. "i think i do."

"you have to let me go someday, baby. i'm not gonna be able to come wish you goodnight forever, no matter how long you stay awake."

harry looked into simon's eyes for the only time that evening, his own brimming with tears he didn't know he could even produce anymore. every moment seemed to blend together now; he could only tell what time it was by remembering if he was crying then or not. simon looked so peaceful – who was harry to rid him of that every night? he was being selfish, he knew that all along, but who was simon to up and leave? to leave behind so many people who would be screaming and begging and breaking for years to come. he was so unfair. the world was so unfair.

simon always held this look in his eyes nowadays. it was something harry couldn't quite pinpoint, so powerful yet so undefined. was it regret? was it sympathy? was it anger? in the end, every feeling seemed to retreat back to anguish for harry. he couldn't be happy without simon. the sea couldn't rest without the moon, or else it would thrash and flood and overflow onto the earth, demolishing everything it once loved.

he sucked in a breath.

"just five more minutes?" he hoped, head tilting to hide his shameful broken expression. his lips shook and jaw ached; eyes red raw and skin paled. if only the real simon could see him now. he wanted _his_ simon back.

simon's lips drew thin and he gave a single nod. "five more minutes," he ghosted the words preciously, such a fragile thing, such a careful promise. there they sat for a while, everything and nothing running through their minds. five minutes wasn't enough for either of them.

eventually the room ran cold. the breeze was no longer comforting, but harry would never shut the window, no matter if he froze and thawed – simon would always come back when the window was open.

harry stares at the ceiling. stuck suffocating on tears in his paradox of grief for another sleepless night.


End file.
